


King And Queen Of The Weekend

by deandratb



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: F/M, but hey if you like smut look no further, more alcohol than plot probably, unabashed plot bunny run amok, verges very close to songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-04 18:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deandratb/pseuds/deandratb
Summary: What happens when you and your ex both decide to drown your feelings rather than facing them...on the same weekend, in the same small town?“Most of the time Peyton appreciates being able to drink just about anybody under the table, but when all she wants is to forget her own name until morning, her high threshold is a pain in the ass.”





	1. Different Drinks At The Same Bars

**Author's Note:**

> Smutty fix-it-fic, post-“Some Like It Hot Mess,” because the lack of post-breakup angst for the rest of season 3 made no sense to me. Plot bunny heavily inspired by Lorde’s _Melodrama,_ especially “Sober.”  
>     
>  _Disclaimer: Dialogue quoted from the show does not belong to me, these aren't my characters, they're just so pretty I had to play with them a little. Please don't sue._

_“You’ve made a fool of me. This whole time, my friends could’ve been cured. Liv could’ve been human for months. You’re a sad, selfish, greedy man.”_

_“Wait. What happened to, ‘It didn’t matter how we got here?’”_

_“I’m a lawyer, Blaine. I shouldn’t be trusted.”_

\----

Peyton is spacing out at work, lost behind her efficient mask. She’s so angry at Blaine for lying, even more furious at herself for falling for it–for **wanting** to believe it, queen of denial–and she feels so guilty for the part she played in Blaine, well, playing them all. 

It’s too much at once. She’s drowning.

The worst part is not being able to lean on her friends. How much she misses Blaine is the last thing they would want to hear about right now.

_Maybe **that’s** the worst part, actually: how much she does miss him, even while she completely hates him, too._

So she is exhausted and more than ready for a vacation when her cousin invites her down the coast to use his beach house for the weekend. It isn’t like her to actually take time off, but Baracus practically shoves her out the door, wanting her refreshed for his campaign. 

Dylan left the key under the mat along with a note that just says _‘Hey. The Sand Dollar is good. Love.’_ That’s his code for “Hello. There’s not much fun to be had around here, but The Sand Dollar is your best bet if you need it. Love ya, cousin.” 

Sneaking away without inviting anybody else along had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as soon as Peyton drops her bag on the couch and listens to the windy silence, she knows she'll go crazy just lying around for two days. She’ll spend all her time thinking about what she came to escape. 

_Who,_ her treacherous brain corrects her, which she ruthlessly ignores. 

She heads for The Sand Dollar, which turns out to be a seedy bar just off the beach, full of handsy, stoned locals and drunk kids on spring break. 

Obviously it isn’t her scene–not the kind of place you’d ever expect to find Peyton Charles, Assistant DA to the aspiring mayor of Seattle. But it is dark, and secluded, and has plenty of alcohol…which tonight, she decides, will be just fine. 

She takes a seat at the bar with Lyft at the ready– _in this day and age, who needs friends when an app can send you a designated driver?_ –and signals to the bartender. 

“Tequila,” Peyton tells him. Ready for that escape, she lets the flashbacks hit her the way the liquid hits the shot glass, slow and warm. They’ll be washed away soon enough. 

**Shot #1.**

_Reckless normally didn’t suit her, and even the people who knew her best– **especially them** –would’ve been shocked by her behavior, but she didn’t care. Aching lately, intrigued by this man who had confounded her expectations from the moment they met, and loosened up by the whiskey, Peyton deliberately turned off the critical-thinking side of her brain and gave in to the sensation of his body pressing hers into the couch._

_Her office couch, where she spent so many late nights stressing over the Mr. Boss case as potential CIs declined her offers; the place where she’d sunk down, shaking and pretending she wasn’t scared, after Mr. Boss himself had threatened her and waltzed out unnoticed. A place her hyper-professional self would never have invited over anyone she was dating for drinks, let alone started making out with them._

_Let alone…dear lord, he had amazing hands. It had been too long since she was touched, such a long time since she let herself be open to it, vulnerable. But Peyton trusted him, a former lowlife drug dealer of all people, because he’d given her no reason not to. Instead he came to soothe her nerves and held back when she gave him every flirtatious opening._

_“You’re sure?” he paused to ask when things got more heated, his own speech a little slurred. Her nod seemed to be enough for him, as he searched her eyes for consent and got her hand pulling him back toward her by the nape of his neck._

**Shot #2.**

_His fingers stroked down her back while he murmured in her ear, more words about how gorgeous she was, how much he wanted her, how he’d been drawn to her from the moment they met. She lifted up her own shirt, wanting to ask him to hurry, please, to just keep going, but she couldn’t find the ability to speak._

_The pressure building inside her normally would’ve alarmed her, so intense so quickly, with someone she didn’t know that well. It was that charming, self-aware grin and those insanely blue eyes that made her stomach muscles twitch, contrasted with his trying-too-hard hair and slightly hesitant moves. The combination made him seem more sweet than cocky, someone who she believed when he said he wanted to atone._

_She bit back a moan when he shifted, his lips against the bare skin of her throat. “God, don’t stop,” she said, and then his hands were stroking over her black satin bra, cupping her as she arched against him._

_Tugging his shirt off and trailing her fingers down his chest, she enjoyed the way he shivered. Their skin was slick where it met, her bare legs entwined with his, everything too hot and bright and slow._

_“Oh, God.” His tongue was circling her nipple even as his hands traveled lower. Eyes shut to the sensations, her breathing hitched when he slid a hand down her leg, then under her skirt and across the sensitive skin of her inner thigh._

_She unbuttoned him with her eyes still shut. His mouth was teasing against hers as he stroked his fingertips along the lace edges of her underwear._

_She was wet and ready by the time she tugged his pants down. Balanced precariously against the cushions, he slid into her, the two of them shuddering in unison. Then they were moving together, faster and faster, the tension building, until he came on top of her while she was still shaking from her own climax._

_Wondering to herself if they’d just permanently dented her fancy office furniture, she started giggling in her post-coital glow. With his face buried in her hair, he didn’t even ask why she was laughing._

**Shot #3.**

_“Can’t we just stay here all day?” Blaine was idly curling her hair around one of his fingers while the sun streamed through the gauzy curtains. Seattle had a terrible reputation for rain and general gloom, but every once in a while its residents caught a perfect spring morning._

_How long had it been since she felt so utterly relaxed? Just being around new-and-improved-Blaine made it easier for her to take a mental step back from all the apocalyptic drama, so after their second night together as a sort-of-couple, Peyton knew just how he felt._

_“Mm, I wish,” she replied, arching back a little against his chest. “Gotta get up, though. Brush my teeth…eat…do people stuff.”_

_“Ah. Yeah, that stuff.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then just rested his nose in the curve of it and lingered there._

_“Blaine.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“Getting up. Remember?”_

_“Right.” He moved his lips up the line of her neck, grinning when she hummed in approval. “You sure?”_

_“Yeah. Breakfast time,” she informed him. “I’m starving.”_

_“Okay,” he agreed with a yawn. “Who’s cooking?”_

_Catching her look, Blaine raised an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think I know how?”_

_“Well, not to cast aspersions on your boarding school upbringing, but the only thing I know you **used** to know how to cook was brains. Anyway, this is my apartment. I didn’t expect you to offer.”_

_Sitting up, he watched her slide out of bed. “It seems only fair. Tell you what: you cook today, and I’ll be up next time. Who knows, maybe I’ll surprise you.”_

**Shot #4.**

_She ended it. Both times, she got to hold onto at least that little bit of control. Or pride. For whatever good it did._

_The first time, as enraged and disgusted as she was, she couldn’t quite keep eye contact. He was a literal monster and yet there was real hurt in his expression. Disappointment, too. She couldn’t believe in it, but that didn’t mean she didn’t see it._

_The second time was worse._

_Now, she knew him. His family history and why he seemed so fragile sometimes, his ability to be truly sweet and selfless and silly. So the second time, when she left him there in his office, looking as lost and stunned as she felt, Peyton knew she was breaking his heart. What he had of one, anyway._

_Because that was what happened when you really put your trust in someone, especially when it was messy and difficult and they were maybe the last person you should trust, and then they made you regret it._

_They broke your heart…and you owed them the same._

**Shot #5.**

She’s not drunk yet, though she’s finally starting to head in that direction. Most of the time Peyton appreciates being able to drink just about anybody under the table, but when all she wants is to forget her own name until morning, her high threshold is a pain in the ass. 

So she’s about to signal to the bartender to pour again, or maybe just leave the bottle, when she catches something through the chatter of the crowd that makes her freeze in place, head tilting to hear it better over the flirting and dancing and rousing arguments that surround her. 

Damn it, she would recognize that silky, melancholy voice anywhere. 

_Of all the bars on all the beachfronts, Blaine had to walk into hers._


	2. Time We Danced With The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you and your ex both decide to drown your feelings rather than facing them...in the same bar, with an unoccupied piano? _"No matter what can be said about the wasted potential that is Blaine Debeers, he is not and will never be exactly like his father, because the old man would never sidle up to a piano in a dive bar and start playing quietly for his own entertainment.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratitude must be granted to [broken_hearted_bard]() for pointing out an error in the first chapter that's now fixed. Thank you so much!
> 
> _Disclaimer: Quoted show dialogue and song lyrics aren't mine. I have no money, please don't sue me._

_“So even if I faked losing my memory, you wouldn’t be a little mad?”_

_“I don’t know. I’m just–I’m so happy right now.”_

_“I have good news. Major is going to get his memory back…and the good news doesn’t stop there. This is me. This version of me, small business owner, amateur lounge singer, guy that feels lucky every time you walk through that door.”_

—-

Blaine keeps moving, on autopilot. What other choice does he have? _The show must go on, right?_ He quits playing piano, though, when the customers complain. They want more upbeat music and he just…doesn’t care. He’s tired of faking it. _Hello irony, oldest of friends._

It’s the brain biz instead, again. Scheming and clawing his way back to being king of the hill is what comes naturally, so that’s what he does, burying his feelings.

_He’s a villain; they’re not supposed to have feelings anyway. Idiotic to have let himself believe otherwise._

Branching out suppliers while he tests the blue juice leads him south to a small town for the weekend. He could’ve sent Don E., but he wanted the distance. The time. Once business is concluded, he heads straight for a bottle. 

The town’s only bar was easier to find than a solitary bottle of Jack, so he settles in a corner, sulking over his whiskey while the entire place seems to be filled with couples.

They kiss, they cuddle, they share shots like the world might end tomorrow–little do they know–and they’re everywhere, physical reminders that against all odds, he actually got the girl, only to lose her again.

Technically, he remembers, he’s lost her twice now. That’s when he decides this particular establishment isn’t doing him any favors and gets up to leave…until he sees the piano.

Much like a beautiful woman, he’s always had a hard time resisting the lure of a piano. His father disapproved of such a sentimental pastime, but his mother–and then grandfather–encouraged the lessons, and eventually, every session of putting his fingers to the keys felt like fighting back. 

It still does, bringing solace along with the bittersweet memories of his mother’s hands on his and his grandfather teaching him old Irish ballads. No matter what can be said about the wasted potential that is Blaine Debeers, he is not and will never be exactly like his father, because the old man would never sidle up to a piano in a dive bar and start playing quietly for his own entertainment.

**“Love and other moments are just chemical reactions in your brain, in your brain...and feelings of aggression are the absence of the love drug in your veins, in your veins...”**

As song choices go, it’s a bit on the nose, but he’s half-drunk and moping over Peyton, much as he wishes he wasn’t, and it’s what comes to mind. Along with it comes more moping, because he came here to forget–but he can't.

_She sparkled._

_That was the thing about Peyton that had first tugged at him. From the beginning, underneath her professional demeanor and through all the dark, dismal events to follow, she glowed in a way that made him want to be near her._

_If he simply wanted sex and conversation he could find a beautiful woman in a bar somewhere, without getting mixed up with the ADA whose help was crucial to his plan. Slipping her his card was as practical as it was invitational, given how well he knew Mr. Boss and the danger she was courting. Against his own interests, he cared that she might get hurt because of her involvement in this scheme of his._

_He never thought she'd invite him to stick around after work, as it were, to get a little sloppy on fine whiskey and do very little talking. All he’d really wanted was a little flirtation and to get rid of Mr. Boss. But when he laid out the map for her and connected the dots, she just lit up at him and took his breath away._

_That was unexpected._

_She made him a little tongue-tied, awkward, slightly off his game. He had better lines, smoother moves, but facing her, he was more the teenage loser of his youth than the suave king he’d remade himself to be._

_The worst part was, he liked it._

**“Love come quickly, because I feel my self-esteem is caving in, it’s on the brink...”**

_Had anybody ever come so close to sweeping him off his feet? It was a silly thought for someone who’d made a name for himself as a killer and drug dealer, but Peyton just had this way about her, part warrior queen, part soft and warm and vulnerable. The way she entered an interrogation room and demanded his release, as though anyone she came into contact with should be expected to do nothing less than exactly what she commanded._

_Maybe it was a lawyer thing; he wouldn’t know. But it was hot._

_And though he’d never admit it to anyone, she tunneled right into his weak spot. All he’d managed to make of himself, out of his personal hell growing up, was a cliche. The poor little rich boy, the failed entrepreneur…the thief who barely managed to graduate to drug dealer on somebody else’s turf. Once his grandfather was locked up, long after his own mother didn’t think he was worth living for, Blaine just didn’t see the point. Survival he was good at, but believing he was worth something? He'd left that behind as soon as he was old enough to understand how much his own father hated him._

_Peyton was the first person to try and protect him, to stand up for **him** , since he was a child. It was the strangest feeling, but not unwelcome. Instead it was terrifying, because he wanted to lean into it, accept it. Her hand on his back as she ordered his father to leave, snapping at Ravi and choosing him over Major, welcoming him into their home when she knew Liv wouldn’t._

_Not to mention, how she exuded cool with her shields up, so different from the woman he’d parted ways with who’d still been flush and warm and relaxed from their spontaneous encounter in her office. It should have been awkward, when they pulled back and tugged their clothes into place and she smoothed down her couch cushions, but it wasn’t._

_She had grinned at him, seeming totally at ease, possibly the most confidently sexy woman he’d ever met, and asked flippantly, “Catch you later?”_

_Her grin was contagious. “Well,” he’d replied, “I do have a previously scheduled appointment to go over evidence with this smokin’ hot attorney. Maybe we could hook up after that?”_

_“Sounds good.” She linked her arms behind his neck, leaning in for a long, slow kiss. “Tell me more about this attorney.”_

_“Hmm…” He let his gaze wander down her body and back up to her deep hazel eyes. “Well, she’s gorgeous, and smart, and brave...”_

_Peyton interrupted him. “Brave?”_

_“Definitely. Not just anybody would take on Mr. Boss, let alone face him solo in her office without caving in to the fear. He threatened you,” Blaine reminded her gently. “And you stuck.”_

_She shrugged. “It’s my job. I’m good at it.”_

_“That’s kinda my point. But it’s more than that. You’re in it for more than the title and salary. I can tell. You really want to get him–just for what he does to this fair city of ours. That’s an admirable quality.”_

_“Well, we share it.” She gestured at her outfit. “So. Do I look like someone who just had sex on government property?”_

_“Huh. Presuming I know what that looks like,” Blaine replied, “no. I think you’re good to go.”_

_Nodding, Peyton stepped back toward him for one last kiss. “Then I’ll see you around.”_

**“Love come quickly, because I don’t think I can keep this monster in, it’s in my skin...”**

_He almost went for it that night on the couch. He almost couldn’t help himself, his hands full of Peyton and everything he secretly wanted most beneath his new persona. He couldn’t do it, of course–what if she regretted it? he knew he would regret it–but he almost did before he managed to pull back._

_He wasn’t exactly known for his impulse control, before her. But he really did want to be better. Worthy of her company, let alone her affection. Worth that smile she shot his way that warmed the darker parts of his soul._

_She made him feel poetic._

_There was nothing he could do about how damaged he was long before they ever met, or what he did before and after becoming a zombie. But he was just a man now, and he wanted a real chance with her. So he stopped it._

_He spent the night tossing and turning on the couch, cold without her, and wishing he’d never lied in the first place._

**“Love and other socially acceptable emotions are morphine, they’re morphine, cleverly concealing primal urges often felt but rarely seen, rarely seen...”**

_When she took his hand the next morning, and led him to her room, he couldn’t believe it. And he didn’t try to stop it. She chose him, knowing his past, knowing the new man he was trying so hard to be–her hands were in his hair, her lips were parted against his, and they were kissing in the muted daylight where it felt like a dream._

_He didn’t ever want to wake up._

_His old life and the new one where she treated him like a decent guy who she was interested in were worlds apart. Despite her best friend being a zombie, Peyton had managed to stay surprisingly untouched by the violence surrounding her. She fought the seedy underbelly of the city…and he belonged in it._

_But not anymore. He’d gotten his second chance, and he was determined to keep earning it, every day with her. Standing in her sunny bedroom, he lifted her shirt up, letting his fingers trace her skin as it was exposed. She stretched into his touch and he wondered if she did yoga, then refused to get distracted by how sexy the idea of her doing yoga was._

_He was such a lost cause when it comes to Peyton Charles, it was ridiculous._

_Unlike the last time, Blaine didn’t ask if she was sure, because he knew her well enough to know that this wouldn’t be happening if she weren’t. Instead, he indulged, the way they didn’t during their fateful one-night stand, when things were too new and frantic and fueled by the risk of getting caught at any moment._

_Now, he could take full advantage of the light warming her bronze skin, drinking in his fill of how she looked in her bra and soft cotton pjs, before he slid those down her endlessly long legs and followed them with kisses._

_“God, you’re gorgeous.”_

_She was so beautifully responsive, angling toward his every touch, humming her appreciation. It made him want to stay with her for days, finding every sensitive spot and claiming it for himself._

_“You’re not so bad yourself,” she breathed back._

_Peyton was already exploring him in return, dispatching his t-shirt and running her hands over his chest, leaning in toward him as her hands drifted lower._

_Their lips met with excruciating slowness, neither of them rushing toward the bed. He traced her lips with his tongue, and when they parted she sighed. Then their tongues met eagerly while his fingers roamed down her back to caress her ass._

_Her hand grazed him through his boxers and he jolted, growling against her mouth, their kisses growing more passionate. With an easy flick of his fingers, Blaine opened the front clasp of her bra and slid the straps off each shoulder._

_They finally began inching toward the bed, still linked at the lips, her hands in his hair as the full length of her pressed against him. He kneeled next to her when they landed, running his hands over her chest and following his fingertips with his mouth._

_Peyton moaned when he tugged lightly on one nipple and circled it with his tongue. He was stroking the other with his fingertips, shifting his legs so that one was between her knees and pressing against her. She rocked against him a little as their lips met and parted, breath growing thick and more desperate._

_Her hands gripped his back, digging in as he continued to explore her, running his tongue along the crease of soft skin beneath her breast, then blowing lightly on her nipple before taking it back into his mouth._

_Her hands moved up to his neck, running through his hair until he ceded control of the kiss to her, and she left him panting for breath. Then she was gripping his shoulders as his mouth found the curve of her neck and lingered there, leaving behind the faintest of marks._

_She arched up toward him, nails digging into his skin, and he moved over, making room to slide down and let his mouth journey south. His lips left a heated trail down her taut stomach and over to her hip, where he planted a firm kiss that made her shiver._

_Peyton released her grip on him and reached out to run her fingers along the waistline of his shorts. With her eyes closed, she waited until he leveraged himself up and then she tugged them off. He kicked them away, sucking in air as her hands found him and caressed the sensitive skin beneath his balls._

_Blaine teased his fingers along the edge of her satin thong, then slid it aside to circle her clit with his fingers. Peyton started to shift along with his movements, quaking against the sheets._

_“Oh, God. Blaine,” she murmured, taking him in her hand and stroking. His fingers kept moving against her until he was hard and ready, and their mouths clashed as he lifted himself._

_She was wet and hot when he slid into her, and he found himself whispering endearments in her ear, just like the last time._

_They moved together with an easy familiarity that didn’t make sense for only their second time, but he didn’t question it, straining with her toward their lush, convulsive peak. To Blaine, she felt like coming home._

**“Love I beg you, lift me up into that privileged point of view, the world of two...”**

_Nothing she said was wrong. He was selfish, and greedy…and sad, most of all. He was angry at her for the way she tricked him into confessing–lied to him, led him into a trap–but he couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm for it, because he'd done far worse. And she was right._

_He hadn’t been thinking about her friends, or making a fool of her, when his memories came back and he pretended they hadn’t. He’d been thinking about himself, which, once he had his memories back, he knew was what he always did. How he’d always been, before._

_It took everything he had not to chase after her. Not to go looking, to make his case, the way he might with anybody else. But this was Peyton, who won arguments for a living, and he knew it would just make things worse. So he covered up the wound with jokes and business and liquor and tried to move on._

**“Love don’t leave me, because I console myself that Hallmark cards are true, I really do...”**

The liquor isn’t helping much. It never really does. Must be the Irish in him; drinking just makes him maudlin.

He sips again anyway, because he’s here and has nothing better to do, closing his eyes and remembering the way Peyton leaned back that first night, her skirt shifting and catching his attention when she crossed her legs. Her voice was sultry between sips, inviting--more intoxicating than the alcohol. 

He’s not sure which is more of a tragedy, the fact that getting his memories back means he lost her, or the fact that having them means he remembers so clearly what he’s lost. 

Putting his own flourish on the melody with one hand and sipping with the other, he catches movement in his peripheral vision that makes him dizzy.

He must be more drunk than he realizes, Blaine thinks, if he’s starting to hallucinate. This one isn’t exactly the way he would’ve imagined it, if he had a choice in hallucinations…which is how he knows he’s not that drunk.

Peyton’s come back to him, in all her fierce and shining glory–but she doesn’t look happy to see him. In fact, she seems just as stunned as he is, striding toward him with an accusatory finger outstretched. 

He can’t help leaning into the chorus as their eyes meet, as she approaches without hesitation and all he can feel is the dull ache of missing her. 

**“I’m gunning down romance…it never did a thing for me, but heartache and misery—ain’t nothing but a tragedy.”**

She carries herself like a fighter ready for the next round, despite her slightly glassy eyes and the tequila on her breath. If this is Peyton Charles on tequila, no wonder she wouldn’t tell him about it that first night. 

She raises her voice over the piano he’s still playing, heedless of the heads that turn their way.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from "Sober" by Lorde. Lyrics sung by Blaine borrowed from "Gunning Down Romance" by Savage Garden.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title borrowed from "Sober," and chapter title borrowed from "Green Light," both by Lorde.


End file.
